


The Collier Lad

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Challenge: Roulette 2015, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Lewis learns something about his new sergeant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Collier Lad

"Hathaway?"

"He's in there with the body. Terminally ill. Elderly. Suicide. She left a note." Laura's laid a hand on Lewis' arm. "They were neighbors, yes, but did he know her well?"

Lewis' shoulders hunched slightly as he gave a resigned sigh. _Who knows?_ His new sergeant was a bloody cipher as far as he was concerned. Hadn't even known where he lived. Wouldn't have been likely to find out, either, if it hadn't been for the shout. 

According to the officer on dispatch, the lad's flat was next door.

The woman's living room was fairly dark—the blinds were shut though it was late afternoon. Faint sunlight stripes painted the opposite wall, illuminating dust motes suspended in the still air. The room smelled of books and Darjeeling tea. A tag indicated SOCO had switched on the small lamp on a side table next to an old-fashioned high-backed armchair. A china cup and an assortment of empty prescription medicine containers had been placed in a neat row on the table to hold up a letter addressed in shaky cursive: "James—"

His new sergeant was crouched beside the body of an elderly woman with shoulder length white hair. It looked as if she'd pitched forward from her armchair as she died: one arm outstretched toward an ornate antique credenza. In the center was a hand-tinted portrait of a happy young couple: the man in a World War II uniform, the woman with shoulder length hair, as black then as it was white now. A soft, plaintive guitar ballad filled the room, too loud for the small space.

"Grace Hamilton was ninety years old today." Hathaway rose, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Her letter is an explanation. And an apology." His mouth was tight; his expression forlorn. "I should have known."

"Not your fault. If you had known, you would have done something." Lewis indicated the room with a tilt of his chin. "Sad that she made this decision, but it's not on you, lad, not at all. Still. Did you know her well?"

"No," Hathaway said automatically. He stared at the carpet and then turned his attention to the CD player beside the photograph. "A bit, yeah. Made her that CD."

 _Quite an admission coming from him,_ Lewis thought. _Never mentioned family or friends, was always at the office. Haven't known him long, but the lad has all the makings of a workaholic._ Lewis hazarded a guess as another song had started. " Is this 'The Recruited Collier' ? "

"You know it?" Hathaway closed his eyes, as if chastising himself. "Of course you do."

"Newcastle, aye. But I've not heard this version. Lyn--that's my daughter up in Manchester--likes this singer. Kate Busby, isn't it?"

Hathaway nodded, as if surprised. "I thought you were an opera fan."

"Morse was the opera fan. I was an unwilling pupil. He might have liked this, though. Haunting and sad. Why this song for your neighbor?"

"Her fiance was a Bevin Boy."

Lewis picked up the photo, appreciating the intricate frame, the way the glass bowed outward as if it couldn't contain the happiness within. He compared the image of the woman in the picture to the woman on the carpet. She even seemed dressed the same. In the photo, her eyes were open, merry. Now, her eyes were closed. He would bet her eyes were open when Hathaway had found her. He'd have a word with the lad. No question in his mind that this was a suicide, but he couldn't have his sergeant circumventing procedure.

He returned his attention to the portrait. _This man is in uniform,_ he thought. The Bevin Boys were conscripted miners during the war, not recognized as proper military. He'd heard that lament often enough as a boy, though they finally got their place in the war records in 1995.

One of the SOCO team was gently rolling the dead woman onto a body bag.

"Excuse me, sir." Hathaway strode quickly outside.

Lewis sighed. _Always harder when it's someone you're familiar with. And God forbid it's someone you know._ He followed his sergeant out onto the street.

Hathaway was standing with his arms folded, eyes closed, chin to his chest as if deep in thought.

"You all right there, Hathaway?"

The young man opened his eyes, his gaze moving from Robbie to the blank window of the old woman's flat. "When I moved here two years ago, Grace brought over a cake and asked if I would watch her blinds, to make sure they were open every day." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "The cake was unnecessary, I told her. I was happy to watch out for her. She said it was payment in advance for services to be rendered." His tone was wry. "She said she wouldn't need me after she turned ninety."

Lewis nodded. Waiting.

"I thought she planned on entering a facility of some sort, sir." Hathaway shook his head slightly, staring at the window.

Lewis put his hands in his pockets. "Grace? Not--Miss Hamilton?"

The younger man blinked, as if coming back to himself. "She insisted on her Christian name, despite the difference in our ages."

"That bothered you."

Hathaway considered this. "It seemed impolite." 

"What happened to her fiance?"

"He received his orders the morning that photo was taken, so they pushed up their wedding. On the way to be married, they were in a traffic accident. His injuries were deforming. Hers were minor. He said she could do better, refused to marry her and went into the mines."

Hathaway cocked his head, as if recalling her words. "Bevin Boys worked double shifts back then to support the war effort. She would listen for the whistle and meet him at the mine to remind him that they were to be married. And he would joke with her, saying that she was sunlight and he was darkness. 'The Recruited Collier' was their song, she told me."

The expression on his face was reflective. "His name was James, too. 'Dashing Jimmy,' in the song."

Hathaway continued: "He went missing six weeks after he began working in the mines. They told her he deserted. She didn't believe them, demanded an investigation. It turned out that he was killed—bled out and died when a support beam collapsed in the shaft. Officials believed he was trying to save a mate. Neither man's body was retrieved due to the lack of manpower at the time. The mine became his tomb."

A SOCO tech brought out the letter and the empty bottles in evidence bags, handing them to Robbie. "Dr. Hobson's gone back with the body, sir." Her voice was soft. Her gaze flickered to the detective sergeant. "Letter says no next of kin. Lists mortuary arrangements."

Lewis nodded his thanks, watched the van pull away.

He didn't look at the lad. _He's taking this harder than I'd expect. Perhaps she reminded him of a relative, his gran maybe. Though what do I know? Never mentions family._ He cast a brief, covert glance at Hathaway, who stood with an arm across his middle, one hand cupping his elbow and the other hand pinching his bottom lip.

"She never married?" Lewis asked.

Hathaway sighed, dropping the hand from his mouth. "Well, I offered based on the cake she brought. But she said I wasn't her type."

"Too posh?"

"Too pretty, according to her, sir."

"Well, you are that."

The young man smiled slightly, his cheeks tinged the faintest bit of pink, but his tone was dry. "Thank you, sir."

"Not like it's your case, man." Lewis scanned the letter she'd written. "She was prepared, at any rate. She apologizes to you for having to find her."

"I was—shit!" Hathaway's head shot up and he bolted into the flat next door. Lewis shut Grace's door, nodded to the remaining constable, and followed.

His sergeant's flat was as spartan as the old woman's was ornate. Tiny living room, tiny kitchen. Smoke hung in the air from something burning on the small stove. Hathaway rushed a pan out to the rubbish bin outside, then he was back, opening windows and waving a tea towel. "I was making her dinner for her birthday," he explained. He pulled a casserole from the oven. "Came home, threw it together, shoved it into the oven. I'd started to fry up tomatoes when I remembered that I hadn't checked her window as I came in. Thought I'd take a glance—" He huffed a sigh and wiped his hands with the tea towel. "I left for work too early this morning to check on her."

Hathaway dropped the towel onto the counter, spreading his hands wide, palms flat as if steadying himself. He sighed and ducked his head to look at his shoes again, before looking up. He squared his shoulders before turning to face Lewis. "Would you care to stay for dinner, sir? Although--perhaps you have other plans."

 _He expects me to refuse,_ Lewis thought. _Does he want me to refuse? Maybe I should. Maybe he needs to be alone with his grief and his misdirected sense of responsibility. Aw, sod it. No one needs that. He was there for me when I went to see my Val that first day back, I'll be there for him._ "Love to."

 _And there's something you don't see every day, that little half-smile of his. Like I'm doing him a favor._

"Do you cook for all your neighbors?"

Hathaway blew out a little sigh. "Hardly. Nodding acquaintance, mostly."

Lewis thought of his flat, of knowing the neighbors on all sides though he'd only been back in Oxford for a few weeks. And his sergeant, who seemed wrapped in solitude. "You have any friends, Hathaway?"

James finished grating cheese onto the casserole, exchanging a plastic container in the fridge for a fistful of scallions. He paused deliberately, hand on the open fridge door, not looking at Lewis. "At the nick? One or two." His demeanor was distant, offhanded.

 _Am I included in that vaunted number,_ Lewis wondered. "Grace seemed to be more of a friend than a neighbor, that's all." He rubbed his chin. _Now I've made him prickly and awkward again._ He watched his sergeant work. "I'd ask if I could help with that, but I don't even know what you're doing there."

The younger man huffed a sigh and gave him a resigned look. The sharp knife in his hand was posed to make another cut. "Curling scallions." He stared at what he'd begun: a little heap of sliced greens.

"Go on then. How's it done—it's a garnish, isn't it?"

The look on Hathaway's face dissipated. He nodded, made short work of the remaining scallions cutting them lengthwise, and got a bowl of water from the freezer.

He sprinkled them into the water. "Grace loved this." They watched as the greens instantly curled into spirals. "It's frivolous."

"Like you making designs on fish pie," Lewis said, remembering their first conversation. _Now why is he giving me that look like he's surprised? Of course I remembered his bloody fish pie, it's about the only personal thing I know about his past._ "You were telling me about your neighbor." He saw Hathaway's guard come up. "For the write up."

Hathaway shook out the green curls and sprinkled them artfully on the casserole, giving it a bit of needed color. "She was in deteriorating physical health as you could see from the prescriptions. She was stoic. Hated what aging was doing to her mind." 

"Was she forgetful?"

"Her past was becoming clearer than the present." Hathaway picked up the casserole to take it into the living room. "She was becoming lonely after decades of being content with solitude."

Hathaway spoke those words with a soft reverence, a regret. Lewis glimpsed again the kind of priest his sergeant might have made, like that moment when the lad had taken him to the cemetery. It wasn't just the respect, it was the sense of shared pain.

 _Might have been able to talk with you, if you'd been the one there with me when Val died,_ Lewis thought. _Might be able to talk with you now, if you'll let me._

Lewis surveyed the living room as if conducting an investigation—which he was, of sorts. His sergeant was a serious book lover, all neatly categorized, alphabetized. No surprise there. Not a photo in sight. A beautiful, expensive looking guitar on a stand—no need to ask if he played--it was obviously a passion. An odd stone head, the kind of thing an Oxford academic would have on their office wall. A potted philodendron that needed water. Everything neat and compulsively tidy.

The coffee table—modern, utilitarian— was already set for two. Red wine and wine glasses, a green salad. A small cake—made from scratch, he guessed, seeing a dusting of crumbs in the chocolate icing.

"Don't look too closely, sir. It's my first effort with her cake recipe."

 _I'll add that to my list titled The Unexpected Hathaway: he's sentimental._ "Tell me about your friend."

"As I said, not really a friend." Hathaway shrugged adding a slight shake of his head. "I just watched her window blinds."

"Ever take out the rubbish for her? Ever ask if she needed milk or tea? Ever drive her to church?"

"She didn't believe in God. She taught history." His sergeant evaded the question.

 _Skillful at that, too, dodging questions that other people usually answer. And if he sees that I have a mind to force an answer, he answers it all right—sarcastic as you please or changing the subject without giving anything away. Clever clogs._

Robbie picked up the wine bottle. _Nice, but not expensive._ He raised an inquiring eyebrow at his sergeant.

Hathaway answered the silent inquiry by handing him the corkscrew. "It's not good enough to need to breathe, sir."

"Just happy it doesn't have a screw top." Robbie filled their glasses as Hathaway tossed the salad.

Hathaway picked up his glass and sipped.

"Not going to make a toast?"

Hathaway blinked at him. "She's not here to hear it."

"Usually rituals are for the comfort of the living."

"She didn't believe in rituals. She believed in keeping her promises, though." Hathaway raised his glass slightly. His normally low voice sounded tight, almost bitter. "To Grace, then. You said I wouldn't have to keep an eye out for you after today. Happy Birthday."

"To Grace," Lewis echoed softly.

Hathaway scooped a helping of casserole onto Lewis' plate, adding a generous portion of salad and a roll without consulting him.

"Thanks." Lewis grinned, watching Hathaway fuss like a mother. "Are you going to butter my bread, too?"

"I'm sorry, sir—" Hathaway's eyes went round, as if mortified.

"It's fine, lad." Lewis assured him with a smile. "How often did you make her dinner?"

"Too often, obviously." Hathaway said ruefully. He refilled Lewis' wine glass and then his own. He seemed ill at ease.

 _However much he denies it, he just lost a friend,_ Lewis reminded himself. He wanted to ask if he had cared for an aging parent. He stopped again before he stepped over that invisible line that surrounded Hathaway. He gestured with his fork. "First home cooked meal in an age. It's good."

A slight smile edged the melancholy from Hathaway's features. "I enjoy cooking." Perhaps sensing he was giving too much away, he quickly retreated behind his usual polite mask. "I'd be willing to cook occasionally if we could discuss cases over a decent meal rather than the questionable sandwiches available at the nick after hours."

"I think that can be arranged, sergeant." Lewis watched his sergeant's demeanor soften.

"Cheers. I can't afford to eat all of my meals at a pub and still lay in pints for us both. Sir."

 _Cheeky sod._ "I like a little telly sometimes after dinner." Lewis squirmed uncomfortably on the couch. He preferred his own furniture and his television set was larger. "Need a proper table to spread out case files." He felt Hathaway go rigid. _Maybe I'm all wrong. Maybe he has a life outside of work. Maybe I'm over-stepping here. But he offered._ "If you're willing, we could go to mine. Occasionally, as you said. I've a larger kitchen, if you're willing to show me how to do things. Not much experience cooking, but I can act as sous chef."

Hathaway's eyes lit up. The corners of his mouth curled up in the first genuine smile that Lewis had ever seen from the man, light chasing away the dark. "I can teach you to make curled scallions."

 _And I can teach you to open up._ Lewis tucked into his casserole. "You can teach me to make frivolous fish pie. And we can watch 'QI' after." And, feeling emboldened, Lewis added: "And maybe you can play 'The Recruited Collier' on that guitar. We'll look out for each other, James, as good partners and friends do."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies-not beta'd.


End file.
